


Milk and Honey

by unknownsister



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombies, Character Death, Dark, Hallucinations, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Suicide, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 22:09:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/753633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknownsister/pseuds/unknownsister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I miss you.”</p>
<p>“I know, John.”</p>
<p>“I failed you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Milk and Honey

His food had run out three days ago. 

John tightens his grip on his pistol and listens to the snuffling outside his barred door. It wasn't much of a door. He was stuck in a glorified broom cupboard, barely big enough for him to piss in the corner. 

Not that it mattered much now. John knew from a medical perspective exactly what his body was going through, each organ shutting down, each cell shriveling up. He didn't need to count how many bullets he had left because he knew the exact amount. There was one in his pocket that he ran his fingers over when the anxiety became unbearable. He had always found comfort in their cool surety, now more than ever. 

He doesn't remember the last time he slept. 

The monsters outside the door don't moan like they do in the movies. He really thought they would have moved on by now, but they were proving tenacious. Single-minded, yet without thought. 

The hallucinations started four days ago. 

At first, they were just hunches, the feeling of someone watching him. He played it off to the paranoia of his situation. The world was overrun; he had every right to feel paranoid. There was no one left to judge him anyway. 

The one window in the cupboard gave him the greasy light of London each day so he could see, but at night, in the dark, he swore someone sat beside him. He didn't question these feelings either, taking whatever comfort his mind provided. Who was left to care? 

Five days ago, Sherlock Holmes was ripped to shreds. 

They had been running through a tube station, leaping over turnstiles, back up lights casting everything in red. Sherlock's pack caught on a spoke and he jerked backwards, John pounding ahead before noticing there was only one set of footfalls. 

Sherlock grappled with the pack, valuable supplies stored inside. Enough to keep them alive, to get them out of London. John yelled, every fiber of himself straining in terror as the monsters gained too much ground. He ran back to Sherlock without a single thought for his own safety. 

He yanked on that stupid coat, pulling Sherlock backwards while they grabbed his feet. John hears that first cry of anguish from his detective at all hours. Rotted teeth sank through tailored trousers, flesh separating from bone as easily as a child tears paper. 

John would not release that coat, tugging backwards in blind panic, his screams louder than Sherlock's. They were being overrun, the monsters slavishly finding their way over the barricade. White hands – hands that played the violin, that measured chemicals so delicately, that took cups of tea from John's own – grip at his hands so tightly that John felt his bones shift. 

Then they let go. 

Sherlock slipped right out of the coat as they pulled him further into the collective gaping maw of the flesh-eaters. John fell back in shock, slamming into dirty concrete hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs.  
His vision swam and he reached again for those hands, his heart tearing itself from his chest in blind anguish. They were all over Sherlock. Those bright, clever eyes that saw everything, that saw John, that gave him life – were dying. With the light leaving that brilliant mind, Sherlock rasped and gurgled over the blood filling his throat. 

“John. Run.”

Whatever part of John's brain that was still online enough to function pulled his body into action, gripping his pack and Sherlock's coat as the monsters not feasting pulled themselves over the turnstile to find a meal in John. 

He ran until the sobs robbed him of his breath and he locked himself in this closet. He doesn't even know what building, or street. It doesn't matter; John is done with strategies. He could have picked a worst tomb. His wailing those first few days had attracted the monsters to his doorstep and he hears them existing just beyond his flimsy door.

“Oh, stop being so tedious, John. It's annoying.”

He doesn't even startle when that deep voice rumbles from beside him. Hearing the voice is not new. Seeing the body is. 

Sherlock lounges next to John, seemingly without a care in the world. He stretches languidly and yawns, pulling himself into sitting next to his blogger. He glares and John looks away from him for a moment before he can't resist. 

He's sure that his mind is filling in some details that weren't there – how perfectly Sherlock's hair falls and his cheeks certainly had not been that smooth – but, like with most things now, he can't bring himself to care. He's not brave enough to touch him yet. 

“You've run out of food.”

Sherlock places a hand on the near empty pack at John's side. It dimples beneath his palm and John draws a calming breath. They are wearing the same coat, but Sherlock's is remarkably cleaner than John's. The doctor tugs his closer to himself anyway. It doesn't smell like Sherlock anymore. 

“What are you going to do?”

John looks away again. Maybe if he doesn't speak to him, he'll go away. John's not sure if he wants that or not. 

“John-nnn.”

The familiar annoyance brings a tired smile to John's face and he settles further into the coat, not even glaring back. He chuckles. 

“I'm going to sit right here and die, Sherlock.”

Sherlock snorts. 

“What kind of attitude is that, Captain Watson?”

“I haven't been a soldier in a long time.”  
“You never stopped being one.”

John doesn't have anything to say to that, so he studies his boots stretched in front of him instead. Sherlock stands and paces restlessly.

“You always have this.”

John looks up and Sherlock is rolling the bullet from his pocket back and forth in his fingers. 

On instinct, he reaches for his own pocket and feels the bullet there as well. He reminds himself that hallucinations are not supposed to make sense. 

When he returns to Sherlock, the detective is crouched before him, the bullet in his palm. 

John takes the opportunity to examine Sherlock's face. Heavy brows, clear eyes, strange angles and curves that come together to make the most important person in his life. Completely unique and wholly comforting.

Hot tears well up without his permission and he tries to blink them away. He gives into the impulse to touch Sherlock, cupping his cheek. 

“I miss you.”

“I know, John.”

“I failed you.”

“You failed no one. You've been brave enough for two for a long time now.”

John can't swallow over the lump in his throat. He yanks Sherlock forward by the back of his neck and their foreheads press together. He swears he can feel the detective's breath. 

He wrenches the next words loose with effort. 

“I don't know what to do, Sherlock.”

He feels a finger tapping against his temple.

“Think. Use that brain of yours. I'm sure you have one in there somewhere.”

John manages a wet laugh and shakes his head minutely.

“I can... I can stay here and waste away.”

“Yes.”

“Or I could – open the door.”

“You could.”

“Or.” 

He opens his eyes to study Sherlock and sees the bullet in his outstretched palm. He stares at it for long moments, still pressed close with his imaginary detective.

“I'm afraid.”

“A natural reaction, John.”

He pulls his eyes back to Sherlock's.

“But you're not alone. I'm right here.”

John thinks about arguing the fact, but his brain won't let him voice the denial. It wants to protect itself and John doesn't want to fight anymore. 

He closes his eyes. 

“I'm so tired, Sherlock.”

Long fingers are wiping the tears from his cheeks. 

“I know. It's time to rest.”

John plucks the bullet from Sherlock's palm, instinctively knowing that the one from his pocket is now missing. He loads it into the chamber and takes a deep, shuddering breath. He doesn't pay attention to the gun – he focuses on Sherlock. 

The detective reaches out and wraps large hands around John's face, cradling him close. 

“It's okay, John. I'm here.”

“You're here.”

He clicks the safety off. 

“I'd be lost without you.”

“We need to be together.”

John's hand aren't shaking at all. 

“Yes, John. Together.”

John presses a soft kiss to spectral lips and pulls the trigger.


End file.
